There's one thing movies always fail to show you. Victory is never the end of anything. Failure usually is. Victory is just disorienting for a while.

My experiment went so well, I'm a little stumped about what to do next. I know what it means, but what to do with it has my mind spinning.

Yes, I can move up the social ladder now and target other people on Jace Rosenberg's tier, but does that mean I should leave the lower tools alone?

And no one requested proof to believe what TMI claimed. But should I stop providing proof altogether?

There's no right answer to this. It's very important that people don't ask questions about the app, and I have long ago failed to understand them and predict what's going on inside their heads.

Because if it were me, I'd have questions the moment TMI appeared and started confirming rumors. Which no one else did. I'm clearly a freak.

So I do the only thing that makes sense. As I sit cross legged on my bed, I pick up a notepad and pencil out my options with their pros and cons.

I have two choices regarding my targets: either keep climbing, leaving the lesser idiots behind, or randomly hit everyone.

The first option has an obvious pro. Once the top of the food chain figures out that TMI keeps climbing, they'll start to be afraid, shaking in their Gucci or Prada shoes that it might be them next. The con is that they would see it coming.

Keeping it random also has the pro of scaring them and reminding them that no one is safe. The con is that they might get a false sense of security. Then, they wouldn't be as stressed about it as they should and it would take a considerable amount of effort from my part.

I chew the end of my pencil, my eyes straying so the tiny blue flowers on my bedspread dance. Both approaches are enticing, especially since what happened to Audrey Hart was as random as it came. But it's also that particular aspect that makes me want to steer clear of their modus operandi.

The issue of evidence is even tougher. Not providing it could scare my targets, because they would know it is no longer needed. Providing it would also terrify them because they would know I have it. So it's a matter of prestige over validity. TMI is beyond proof, that was already demonstrated, but how long could it survive without it once the top becomes a target and start denying the truth?

I can't decide.

Out of a reflex that I thought I've lost, my hand reaches for my phone and I'm scrolling through my contact list before my fingers start shaking and I drop the thing all together.

There's no one to call. I have no friends. Not after what happened to Audrey. Not after I started obsessing over it. But no one else cares, and what happened can't just blow under the radar.

Rosie Geld can't win. Her ilk can't get away with this.

I write down the list again, afraid I'd forgotten any of the names on it.

Rosie Geld.

Rod Wiseman.

Miranda Washington.

Martin Hirsch.

Donna Jensen.

Davey Postvam.

Ava Park.

Antoine Laurent.

Lexi Kramer.

Lucas Brandt.

R R, M M, D D, A A, L L. The alliteration nation. The abomination nation. The cruelest, most self-entitled assholes on this planet, set to be the future of our nation.

Not if I can help it.

"Adrienne, what are you doing?"

My mother's nasal voice makes me jump. I turn the notepad over and my eyes dart to her, my heart racing and my teeth gritting together.

There she is, in the doorway, a glass in her hand. Jocelyn, my horrid, alcoholic mother. Her drink is dark, reminiscent of Coke, but I know better. There's probably three quarters rum in there.

"I asked you a question," she insists, her words harsh and slurred.

She hates it when I ignore her. Hates it when everyone does. That's why she probably fucked the fathers of all my enemies. It was her way of helping my own father climb the social ladder. Not that he's a saint.

"I'm not doing anything," I answer, my tone even and lacking any emotion. I don't think she knows how much I despise her and I don't want her to. Not yet at least. It would just be one extra headache.

She raises an eyebrow. Even if her hair is dyed blonde, her eyebrows are still dark, reminiscent of the chestnut curls of her youth, the ones I inherited from her.

With her styled bob, immaculate white pant suit and flashy silver heels, she looks like the respectable wife of a Congressman. Too bad my father isn't one, at least not yet. And too bad it's all as fake as her hair color.

As much as she tries, she is not put together. All her life had been about gaining social status and financial stability. It had ruled every decision she had ever made, from the moment her parents had gone bankrupt, and until this very day. Even having me was part of the plan.

Maybe it wasn't easy for her, lying left and right, hanging around schools she didn't go to, just to snag a husband from a good family. Cue Harold, my father, the fool. Even if my paternal grandparents aren't rich or famous, they had potential and political ties. Jocelyn couldn't aim too high, not when she had no political value of her own. All she had was good looks and an undying ambition. I guess I did inherit something other than her hair color.

Whether they ever loved each other or not, I will never know. Whatever affection was between them that got them to make a child is, however, long gone.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a tragic little hero with a neglectful family and asshole parents. My childhood was okay. It took me very long to figure out that my parents basically hate each other, and by that time, I had enough problems of my own to care too much. Plus, my grandparents love me. Both pairs. And I love them. Of course, I don't see them much since we moved to Washington, but how else would my dear father advance his career?

How else would my dear mother lie her way into the highest social circles, wearing designer clothes she can't afford? But fake it till you make it has always been her motto in life. That's how we ended up in Washington DC when I was much happier back in Baltimore.

Who cares what I want? Definitely not Harold and Jocelyn.

"You should go out with friends," my mother declares, making a sharp gesture with the drink in her hand.

I watch the dark liquid climbing dangerously high on the wall of the glass, stopping a mere millimetre from the brim. How I'd love to see her spilling that thing on her suit.

"What friends, mother?" I'm not going to pretend I have or want any. I also just like to aggravate her, and my lack of social skills always does that.

"Rosie Geld, Donna Jensen... Even the Park girl." She hesitates, her hazy brown eyes narrowing. As much as she likes social standing, she never mentions Miranda because she's a damn racist and wouldn't want me around a black girl. Though I'm pretty sure Jocelyn did her father.

"Sorry to disappoint, Mother, but I'm not friends with them."

"Nonsense! You and Rosie used to hang out all the time when you were kids."

I wince and bury the memory begging to resurface. No, the person who was friends with Rosie is dead. Not me. Too many things have changed.

I couldn't spare a positive thought towards Rosie, not after what she did to Audrey Hart. Not after she killed her. Rosie lost her humanity long ago.

"Rosie's an entitled bitch."

Jocelyn rolls her eyes. "Of course she is. Her father is riding the wave in the Senate. There are rumors that he'll be the party's next pick for president. You should take a leaf out of her book and be an entitled bitch yourself. Getting along with them could help your father's career."

"I think one woman in this house selling her integrity for my father's career is enough."

She narrows her eyes at me, but she doesn't disagree. If there is one thing I appreciate about my mother is that she's not apologetic about who she is. She owns up to what she's done and never tries to bullshit me.

Instead, she wanders to my closet, her knees wobbly like a baby calf's, and opens it. As always, I'm impressed by how much she can do without spilling her drink.

"You have all these nice clothes and you insist on always wearing those jeans and that godawful hoodie. Where'd you even get that? Target?"

It's exactly where I got it. "Not my fault Prada makes ugly-ass hoodies."

"That's no way for a lady to speak." But she doesn't contradict me that designer hoodies are ugly as fuck. "Go out more. Get out now."

I open my mouth to end our interaction with my usual "Fuck off, mother," but I change my mind. I need to think and she's in an unusually verbose mood. There's no way in hell I want to discuss my childhood with Rosie Geld, so getting out isn't such a bad idea.

So, instead of arguing with her any further, I take the easy way out. I nod, grab my notepad and hop off my queen sized bed.

"That's the spirit," my mother cheers, a hiccup escaping her.

I try not to cringe at how cartoonish she is because I'm done interacting for the evening. She's apparently not. The moment I pass her, she takes my face in her hands. The cold glass makes me shiver and the spiky model on it digs into my cheek.

"You can do great things, Adrienne," she whispers. "You are so beautiful, a lot more beautiful than I ever was. You got your father's wits and my perseverance. There's nothing in this world out of your reach."

I nod so she'd let me go, even if I know she's full of shit. I'm not beautiful. I'm not ugly either. I'm just that type of normal, pleasant face you see a dime a dozen, that people forget the second they see it. Sure, my hair color is a nice shade of chestnut, my eyes are grey, almost blue, and my lips are full, but in a place like Washington, in a school like Petraka Academy, I don't stand out.

It's exactly that which makes my job to see and not be seen so much easier. I'm not quirky, I'm not interesting, I don't have a thing that makes me me.

But my mother is right about the other stuff. I am intelligent and I am persevering. I never give up if I put my mind to something.

And right now, I'm hellbent on destroying the people who my mother wants me to befriend. Because I can't let anyone get away with what they did, what they do every day. I won't let them get away with murder.

The thought fuels me to get out of the house faster. The moment I'm out in the dark, I calm down. I like being alone, wondering the streets with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. Sure, it gets lonely sometimes, but not when I have goals. Not when my life has meaning and purpose.

Not when no one understands what I'm doing and would only get in my way.

I still need to decide what to do about TMI. All approaches have their merits, I just need to figure out which one serves my purpose the best.

As I walk, I pull out my cellphone and check the new entries of rumors just begging to be confirmed.

Meredith Anderson is having an affair with the PE teacher. True, but she's too high up the food chain to expose right now.

Hunter Gilligan is doing blow. Also true and on the same tier as Jace Rosenberg. I mark it as something to release in the following days.

Jennifer Andrews and Nina Lee pushed Ginny Jones down the stairs. I frown at this. I've seen Ginny Jones with her face bruised and suspected something like this, but I believed Rosie's posse did it, not the two girls who were supposed to be her best friends. This needs investigating.

Even if I have something to get to the bottom of in the next few days, I keep scrolling absentmindedly amongst the rumors every idiot in school submits.

My finger freezes on my screen and my chest tightens. Erica Lieman is a raging dyke.

Homophobic slur aside, the text hurts me. Erica was my best friend and I know better than anyone that she's into guys. She's had the same, steady boyfriend for years, even if he doesn't go to Petraka. It's a rumor most likely launched by some idiot she turned down.

Even if we're no longer friends, I can't leave it like this. I debunk the rumor. TMI calls it fake. It happens very rarely so the school will be in an uproar tomorrow, but I don't care.

Tears fill my eyes as I stare at Erica's name and imagine the hate she's been getting around the school. The kids there are many things, but progressive isn't one of them. They're the children of the biggest conservatives on this planet. But I could stop it and I did.

What the fuck is wrong with you? That girl is not your friend. Not anymore. And this isn't going to change anything. Especially since she won't know I did it.

It doesn't matter anyway.

I focus on more rumors, trying to smother the unpleasant feeling in my chest. I freeze again once I come across the most unusual rumor yet.

Marisa Delterre is actually a genius and only pretends to be a bubbly airhead.

Um, what? Marisa Delterre is definitely a bubbly airhead with her pink and purple outfits, her perpetual smile and bouncy steps. There's no way that...

I look around. The street is empty and I'm right in her neighborhood. This is such an unusual thing, I'm inclined to check it out right away. I focus on the houses around me and realize I'm basically three doors down from her place.

Filled with purpose, the uneasiness inside me disappears and I almost feel like giggling. This is going to be easy and amusing.

I jog to her place, one in a row of identical brick villas, and easily climb the tree in her front yard. Since I know basically where everyone at Petraka lives, I also know the window of Marisa's bedroom overlooks the street.

Hidden between the foliage, I peer through her bedroom window. I've never looked inside her house before because I didn't need to. She is too high up the social ladder to be a target yet and she's pretty down low on the rumor radar. Up until now.

There she is, mahogany waves as bouncy as ever, but she's wearing blue jeans and a grey NASA t-shirt. Her walls are filled with maps of the world and the solar system and there's not one ounce of pink anywhere.

She drops on her bed, a notebook in hand, and frowns at it. She has something else there. Something smaller. A calculator. What the hell is she doing?

I crawl my way on the branch, closer to the window, squinting to see better. What's she writing? If I can get just a bit--

My heads hits something and I curse under my breath. The branch I've just hit flays against her window pane and she looks up.

Our eyes meet.

She sees me.